First Foot in the States

Adrenaline...

We arrive at the departure already out of breath and extremely tense because one of my organizational "oversights" made us discover TWO DAYS before departure that my fourteen-year-old son also needed his own digital passport: it wasn't enough that he was included on mine as in most other countries!!! Luck, the now deserted period of users at the counters, and the extraordinary kindness of the police headquarters staff allowed us to obtain the coveted passport in 24 hours!!! The struggle continued all the first day: to catch the train from Racconigi CN (as if I had set my alarm 10 minutes late...); to find the shuttle to Linate; to get through the various checks and board the plane; to find our way at Heathrow (intermediate stop); to find our way at Newark and finally take the shuttle that was to deliver us to our comfortable Hilton Hotel.

Arriving in the room and finding all that space in the room and all those soft pillows on the beds was wonderful. The window, overlooking the airport lights, bid us good night. Ettore falls asleep buried among the pillows in exactly one minute. I fall asleep thinking that it's the first time in my life that I go to sleep after having woken up and had breakfast: miracles of time zones.

New York: the wonder.

Arriving by bus in New York is super exciting. We get off at the Port Authority station and, on foot, enter Times Square. An authentic delirium of lights, sounds, and smells. The skyscrapers tower with the most improbable shapes, one higher than the other, competing to steal our sky. It feels like being in a comic strip, where the buildings bow and come to talk to you. The many porn video centers are almost naive compared to the bold pornography of the infinite and immense advertising screens, clinging to the shiny buildings of glass and steel. The hotel is beautiful at the entrance: there's even a lovely zen fountain. The room is terrible, without light or air: on the other hand, the usual air conditioning so as not to miss winter. Afternoon wandering in this incredible neighborhood, which distills the best and worst of NY.

Shops, malls, Virgin store, Hard Rock Café, and to finish, the Apple Center that seduces us with the new iPhone, a true object of desire. I leave with the unconfessable hope that someone will steal my old cell phone... Lunch with grilled meat cooked on the street, as if we were in Istanbul. Delicious dinner with Brazilian specialties. But why do we insist on living in Racconigi?

Rain and games in NY

A gloomy day that takes us to Down Town, where we try to shake off the residual jet lag. Delightful seaside walk, even though Ettore doesn't like it because there are no shops (sic!). No Liberty Island for today: it's late and raining. We lingered in a crazy place dedicated to playful adults. Mega TVs everywhere to watch the games: I even watch one in front of the toilet!!! Then pay-to-play games: really fun. In the afternoon, we go into Macy's to compensate for our son's mall deficit. Maybe it's the tiredness, but it disappoints us a bit. We rest and then have a light dinner in a fake Irish pub. Bedtime....

A nation of merchants.

It keeps drizzling. We try to get off to a flying start with a breakfast worthy of the name. Ettore stuffs himself with two eggs, bacon fried on a bed of french fries, finishing off with fruit salad and about half a litre of orange juice. This enormous pile of calories lets us skip lunch (a banana) and sadly land at dinner in a "Chicken bar" where they serve us two utterly dismal plates of tasteless chicken; and no beer!!! First purchases today. Some delightful objects in their perverse "superfluity" and a beautiful yellow Lakers sweatshirt for Ettore. Visit to the Empire State Building and the Rockefeller Center: American economic power. The first churches. I discover that to get in you first have to navigate your way through "shops" and "bars," which probably serve to financially sustain the House of God: the dictatorship of money to which every American must submit.

Midday visit to the Central Library to reconcile with this somewhat too prosaic people. The things they set out to do, though, they really do well...

Rain and Museums.

The increasingly heavy rain convinces us to focus on museums. My unreliable sense of direction, combined with the fact that the "Streets" along the sides of Central Park are divided into East and West, got us lost in Harlem. A friendly Puerto Rican barber tried to convince Ettore to get his hair cut: he resisted, fearing too "black" a cut. Long walk in the rain to cross Central Park. It's already 12:00; we're tired and frozen: we treat ourselves to the luxury of a taxi. $8 tip included and we find ourselves in front of the Natural History Museum. Nice. More than nice, spectacular. Quick sandwich in a tiny bar at three in the afternoon! There's still time to look for and find the Roerich Museum. We find it and it feels like entering another world. It's free. It's set up in a charming little house that seems transplanted from a London neighbourhood.

Over three floors you can encounter his paintings set in rooms furnished surely with furniture and objects belonging to that curious intellectual, mystic and painter of the last century. The whole thing is very evocative, warm, welcoming. While we visit in reverent silence, a girl practises yoga in front of one of his paintings; other people seem to be rehearsing lines from a play. We leave laden with postcards, posters and much gratitude. Tired, we end up having dinner at our breakfast place: a yoghurt and some fruit. Straight to bed so we can read a bit, enjoying the warmth of dry sheets.

The other New York

Today we've definitively decided not to visit the Statue of Liberty: we'll go to China Town instead!!! Ettore is eager to make a thousand purchases in the little shops the guidebook mentions. We see the strangest goods on display and the most ignoble "fakes": someone ought to study the anthropological relationships between Chinese and Neapolitans... From dried fish shops, to greengrocers who sell only fruits never seen before, to the inevitable and fascinatingly alluring herbalists. Ettore convinces me to get a massage for my increasingly painful back. It's one of the most painful experiences of my forty years, but perhaps useful. After an initial daze, my shoulder really does seem better. While I'm being skilfully tortured, my son manages to chat up the beautiful Chinese girl at reception and gets her to recommend a restaurant (Shanghai Café - 100 Mott St).

It turns out to be excellent advice: never eaten so well and so much for just $14!!! After lunch it's my turn to convince him to get his hair cut. The experience turns out to be most pleasant, thanks to the attendant who washes his hair and massages his scalp for a long time. The cut is well done but not as eccentric as he would have liked. The price, $23, compared to the $58 they'd asked in the more "in" neighbourhoods. In great spirits, we throw ourselves into visiting the Lower East Side, East and West Village. All very pleasant places, especially the two Villages. Ettore buys two nice T-shirts, I buy yet another rain hat (I'll have to talk to my analyst about this obsession with rain hats...) In the evening we get back to the hotel when it's already dark.

It's the right evening to treat ourselves to a second dinner at the Brazilian Restaurant (Emporium Brasil - 15 West 46th Street - NY): the best meat ever eaten, accompanied by a most enjoyable beer!

The Bronx!

Today the Bronx. It's nothing terrible, at least at first glance. We visit the Zoo, which confirms the Americans' outstanding ability to create beautiful artificial reconstructions: I'm beginning to understand that to them the concept of "conservation" must seem rather curious. Then I stubbornly insist on reaching City Island by bus. We get there after no small amount of trouble. It's charming, a fishing village made prettier by Victorian cottages complete with very green little lawns, just a few blocks from the metropolis. The terrible thing is that there isn't a single metre of accessible beach or seaside promenade. The whole coastline is privatised: every house has its own little strip of beach and everyone else... can buy their own! On the plus side, the park before you reach the island is very beautiful and there are accessible beaches. Unfortunately we only see them from the bus.

Evening in another Irish pub where the Guinness came back to our table twice...

Waving goodbye to NY from the Brooklyn Bridge

Last day in NY. We discover Central Station and its refined shops. I give up on a "Royal Shaving" for $55 (yikes!), but we end up in a charming stationery shop where Ettore finds a diary to give as a gift to the son of his mum's partner (we urgently need to invent short names for these new relatives...). We head for the Brooklyn Bridge. We get there without a hitch because by now the Subway, despite being terribly organised, holds no more secrets for us. Walk on the bridge with the obligatory photos: the landscape is truly beautiful; it's the city turning itself into landscape. We go back to the hotel to change: the sun has returned and with it the muggy heat; we're drenched in sweat. Lunch with a street-bought grilled meat skewer: they laughed because I asked for a beer, maybe they're Muslims. I'll make up for it tonight. Afternoon devoted to Central Park.

We play on a huge, very green lawn, enjoying the thick, cool grass with bare feet. We play with the baseball glove we bought yesterday on the street for $10 (it would cost 60 Euros in Italy) and a ball Ettore had already bought on the first day (he'll have to talk, in future, to his analyst about his attraction to every kind of ball...) We go back to the hotel, argue a bit because I'm tired and my back is hurting again and because he doesn't realise the effort it costs me to organise everything, day by day. After the shower tempers cool and we sheath our knives, teasing each other a bit. We go back to the Emporium Brasil, partly because the food is good, partly because we like being treated as regulars by now.

After yet another observation of how there are more gays than straights in NY and after the final confirmation that the food there is really good, we leave with the waiter's warm goodbyes (perhaps too warm, now that I think about it...) Suitcases and bed.

A flaming red Chevrolet.

We say goodbye to NY: happy to have met it, but with no regrets about leaving. Too much noise, too much chaos, too many people... too much! Without a hitch we return to the airport and there our car is waiting for us, the one that will accompany us across at least four states in the coming days. It's a flame-red Chevrolet that looks like it just came out of the dealership. I booked and paid for a mid-size car and I find myself with a spacious, comfortable, even luxurious vehicle with all the various optional extras it comes with. The satellite navigator is there too, but things don't start well with it. As soon as we leave the airport we start missing one turn after another, arriving exhausted at the certainty that we'll end our days in that inextricable maze of roads and highways that seem to suffocate the outskirts of Newark and New York.

Then we start understanding each other better, the "sat-nav lady" and I, and a couple of correct turns get us out of Newark. There's still one ill-fated choice of mine to fix: I told the "lady" to avoid the highways, in a surge of bucolic romanticism. The first hour is spent at a snail's pace crossing unknown towns all alike: estimated time to Buffalo, more than 8 hours! When, defeated, I tell her to use the highways, the time magically drops by three hours and we really start travelling. What's more, the American highways, beautiful, cost almost nothing: today for 300 miles we'll have spent 2 or 3 dollars. Stop at a roadside place, where we're astonished once again at how enormous the portions they serve everywhere are, and then off again, without stops, to Buffalo. We arrive in the dark, after 9 hours of travel. We only manage to find a suite at $160!!! Never mind.

Ettore enthusiastically enjoys the luxury; I hope the manager of my bank is in a good mood when the credit request from my card comes in. We heroically end the day with a couple of km dash to find the legendary "Anchor Bar," flagged by the guide as the place where the now-famous "Hot fried chicken wings" were invented. We find it at 10:30pm and, miraculously, we're served a sumptuous platter topped with 20 enormous chicken wings, two Cokes and two draft beers. We both reach ecstasy for just $25...

The disappointing Niagara Falls

Once again we start by eating. This time it's the rich breakfast included in the $160 Suite. Well stuffed, we set off for Niagara Falls. On arrival the disappointment is great. We're greeted by a grotesque "circus" aimed at fleecing tourists of as much money as possible. There are so many self-styled "Visitors centres" and "Falls access" points that we can't find the actual falls. Everywhere we stop they try to convince us to buy "super-bargain" visit packages that turn out to be real rip-offs. We finally manage to find the real entrance and there we buy our pass for $28 (the advantageous offers earlier were all around $60). As soon as we see the falls, driving along the river, we're a bit disappointed: "Nice," says Ettore. The delirium breaks out when we find ourselves right beneath that incredible mass of powerful, roaring water, aboard the "Maid of the Mist" boats.

It's a truly breathtaking spectacle. We also treat ourselves to the "Caves of the Wind," which is a protected path leading very close to the waterfall, and then we return to our car with a desire to set off again. Snack at 4pm with Coke and Apple pie consumed in a deserted parking lot and then as much road as we can towards Cleveland. I get off at Springfield, thinking it's the Simpsons' one, but it's just a namesake. We discover a very charming little town that seems to have come out of episodes of "Murder, She Wrote." A guy with two children goes out of his way, far beyond any Italian sense of good measure, to find us addresses for Hotels or B&Bs. We finally find the "Four Creeks" B&B in Girard. It's delightful.

We're so happy that we tolerate finding all the restaurants already closed at 9:30pm, except for a gloomy Italian restaurant that still serves us while they're already clearing up. Cordiality is never lacking: this time what's missing is the beer. Ettore allows himself a moment of despondency over his hands, which are getting worse again: psoriasis really is a nasty beast. It breaks my heart and I admire him so much for the strength of spirit he shows. I find myself thinking that Ettore is a really good person, a most lovable son and a perfect travelling companion...

To the North!!!

At breakfast we fully appreciated the English style of our B&B: we later discover that the lady is a subject of Her Majesty the Queen, transplanted to the USA. We set off towards Cleveland, which however never arrives. We consult the map more carefully and feel a sense of dismay: perhaps the distances are too vast to tackle by car the way we want to... So we turn to our trusty "lady," which we have on board, and she tells us that in about eight hours we could reach the top of Lake Michigan. So we decide to sacrifice yet another day to racking up miles, postponing the encounter with the lakes until we're truly in the North. One long haul, just enough time to check whether Burger King's hamburgers really are better than McDonald's (Ettore insists they are, licking his moustache coated with the unknown sauces that came out of his very American sandwich).

At 6pm I'm drawn to the name of a place: Waters. I decide to leave the highway to look for somewhere to sleep. The intuition proves winning. It's a very quiet little town on the lake, the kind Mickey Mouse and Goofy frequent when they go fishing. We immediately find "Waters Inn," which for $45 offers us a spacious room all in wood with two enormous Queen beds. Before dinner, finally, to the Lake (this should be Huron). It's delightful at sunset and very green. Ettore throws a few stones to watch them skip on the surface: he's happy and so am I. We go to eat in the only restaurant in town. This time it seems like the place where Walker the "Texas Ranger" unwinds in the evening: bar counter, ice-cold beers, pool tables and a smiling but brisk waitress.

We both treat ourselves to an 8 Oz steak with a side of delicious red potatoes in butter (and so we also please Tex Willer and Pat Carson...) I wash it down with two beers; Ettore, poor thing, with Coke. Off to bed, not without a bit of Baseball on TV...

Rain at the lake too.

Rain as if it were never going to stop. Today a bike excursion on Mackinac Island was scheduled... We set off downcast. The depression grows at breakfast on the road: they serve us a pastry we'll finish digesting just before dinner. We arrive in Mackinaw City in the rain. Out of desperation, after checking where we were supposed to catch the ferry to our lovely little island, we go into a shop holding a SALE. And so we save the day. It's a deluge of purchases at prices that seem rock-bottom. We come out with an overflowing bag, depression behind us and a worrying future ahead: how will we fit all that stuff in the suitcase??? Meanwhile the sun has come out and so we head to Traverse City, where we find a place at a Lodge right on the beach. The price is reasonable and the girl at reception, who says her name is Irene, shows some interest in me.

She may be young, she may be chubby, but I fall in love with her at once and erase yesterday evening's waitress from my heart. We rent two kayaks and paddle a bit on the lake. Then a swim to drive off the heat, which during the day has become oppressive. Dinner at a brewpub based on fish and excellent craft beer.

Among dunes and sleeping bears

Breakfast included in the price (which then turned out to be less reasonable than what I'd understood...) and off we go to "Sleeping Bear Dunes Shore Park." It's raining again, but by now we don't let it discourage us anymore. The park is beautiful and super well organised: if you want, you never have to get your backside out of the car! We, on the other hand, get out quite a few times. The landscape is strange and fascinating: tall sand dunes right by the lake and the forest behind them. When we read on the trail that the dune we're walking on is 450 ft high and so steep that going down it is strongly advised against, Ettore can't resist the challenge and plunges into an arduous descent until he becomes a tiny dot dipping his feet in the lake, way down there at the bottom.

The tiny dot then struggles quite a bit, climbing back up that crumbly, almost vertical slope, before reappearing to me as my son again: he's shirtless, red as a beetroot, and has the face of someone who'd like to say "Don't ask questions, I don't have the breath for it... but I made it!" From then on, the visit is just a corollary to Ettore's self-congratulation, basking in his courage and vigour (obvious comparisons with yours truly...). We finish in style by climbing another tall dune, which gives access to a vast sandy plateau. We pull out our boomerangs and have a great time. The sun is back, and it's time for us to get back in the car to reach Munising. I thought it was closer, but instead it takes 5 and a half hours of driving. Tired, we stop a little earlier, in a godforsaken little village: Seney.

Cheap hotel and dinner in a bar that looks like Omar Simpson's (Seney Bar, of course). We eat fried, somewhat bland stuff, while gazing at three deer heads and two stuffed salmon. At the next table, a group of locals drinks beer and plays a sort of Bingo.

Wonder on the river.

A brave breakfast on Ettore's part: 4 sausages and 6 French Toasts. I order a Muffin, which in NY was a pastry, and I end up with a barely toasted, buttered roll: I console myself with one of Ettore's sausages. We arrive in Munising with the idea of taking a boat trip to see the Pictured Rocks from the lake. At the Information Centre I see a leaflet for canoe excursions: a lightning bolt shoots through me and Ettore simultaneously. Forgetting the mini cruise, we dash off in search of Au Train, where we should find the rental point. With a bit of difficulty we find it. We're served by a big lad as tall as an oak tree, but with the vitality of a potato. On the plus side, despite never smiling, he rents us the canoe and, for only $21, even drives us to the starting point: the river trip should bring us back in 3-4 hours to where we left our red trusty steed.

Off we go...! After a moment of predictable clumsiness, we start paddling like two Huron Indians in our beautiful Canadian canoe. The river seems straight out of a dream, one of those dreams you have when you're feeling really good. The water is crystal clear, with very fine sand on the bottom. The banks are lined with lush forest: the trees lean over the river, bowing in the strangest ways. Many of them die right there, at the river, leaving their bleached skeletons to mark the tranquil course of the water. At times the bank widens into a broader inlet with aquatic grasses and water lilies; the turtles warm themselves on the weathered trunks and dive in as we approach. Now and then a wild duck. Ducks can't be the only birds around here, because in the silence of our paddling we're accompanied by various calls coming from the forest.

Every so often a little sandy beach: at the first one we pull in and have a bite to eat. Halfway along, we run aground on a trunk that, from below, threatens to capsize us. It's a moment of panic: on the boat there are mobile phone, camera, money, and Passports!!! Ettore gets us out of trouble by fashioning a small lasso and, with it, managing to hook a protruding branch, which allows us to get unstuck. After the scare, absolutely euphoric, we decide to take a swim in the river: I strip naked; Ettore keeps his underpants on, modestly. It's wonderful to feel wrapped in that cool, clear water, which smells of good things. We set off again and reach our destination, greeted by the flight of a great heron. Beautiful!!! After another long drive by car (3 and a half hours) we arrive at the "Sunshine Hotel" in Ontanagon.

The owner is a friendly, plump woman who explains how to visit "Porcupine Mountains Wildlife National Park" and assures us that we'll encounter Bears, Deer, Eagles and, if we're lucky, even Wolves: it's one of the wildest, most untouched areas in North America. A plentiful dinner, once again meat-based, which we have to wash down with soft drinks. With Pepsi in my stomach I write these notes and then off to bed.

Wild areas for boy scouts.

A hearty breakfast for both of us this morning: we're going to the mountains! More than a mountain, you could at most call it a hilly area. Then it's described as a totally wild area: instead there's the punctual American organization, which provides you with maps and information (even instructions like how to "dispose of" any human excrement) and allows you to reach the most interesting points of the park by car. When we head down a trail that can only be walked, we admire the fact that the forest is truly left to itself: every tree that falls stays there, waiting to become humus. Walking in this splendid, very dense forest consoles us a bit. Here live Brown Bears, Wolves, Eagles and Deer in great numbers: we come across two fawns and see some eagles circling; of bears and wolves, not even a shadow.

The landscapes that unfold before the eyes at the suggested points are truly breathtaking; you just have to turn around to look at the parking lot behind you. Thus ending our outing earlier than expected, we manage to scrounge dinner by taking part in the "Community Pic-nic": to celebrate Labour Day, the small community of Ontanagon offers everyone all the hot dogs they want. After the meal we watch with a smile the annual race of...motor mowers! It's still early so Ettore suggests going to the shore of Lake Superior to see the sunset. It's a cool and very windy evening. The lake is furrowed by foaming waves. The beach is wonderful: dazzling white, stretching as far as the eye can see and dotted with trunks twisted and bleached by the sun and time. Ettore, little by little, loses himself completely in a thousand games invented on the sand.

After more than an hour he says to me, "If I'm on a beach and there's no one to see me, I become really small..." I like seeing him like this: he's truly vital and happy to be alive, like a child. I also like that he doesn't feel my presence as a disturbance: I think it's a great honor, for a father, to be able to experience a moment like this with his own son...

Harley & Davidson

Road, road, and still nothing but road. Five and a half hours to get to Milwaukee, interrupted only by a quick picnic to avoid indigestible fast food. Arriving in Milwaukee is overwhelming, for me who is driving, like every arrival in a big city: highways and a thousand overlapping branches, impatient traffic that doesn't give me time to figure out which is the turn indicated by the GPS "lady", extremely complicated interchanges that require paranormal abilities to navigate. Somehow we get near the airport where we know the cheapest motels are. We stop at the "Super 8 Motel", which turns out to be a totally respectable accommodation: $84 with breakfast included. We wash up and then off to look for dinner. At first we end up in a place where they don't want to let Ettore in because he's a minor. We turn on our heels, but we don't find anything convincing.

I decide to go all in and head back onto the highway to look for a central neighborhood: by now it's 10:00 p.m. Even our trusted "lady" gets lost and, by groping our way, we arrive somewhere. We're disheartened and tired... At the end of the street, suddenly, the miracle: a slew of parked Harley-Davidsons and very loud music. We park and, a bit hesitant, we make our way through a crowd of picturesque characters at least half of whom weigh three times what I do. The tattoos compete with the black bandanas and with the most original beard and haircuts. A bottle of beer in every hand. Total: two per person! Ettore advises me not to look at the breasts of any woman even just near a biker. I find myself more in agreement than ever and try to stare into the void ahead of me. After a while we start feeling at ease and we really love being there. Ettore even forgets he's hungry.

We look for a restaurant anyway and find one where they can even cook: fish for both of us and a delicious craft beer (actually, two...). Milwaukee is famous for motorcycles and for beer. After dinner still among those crazy bikers, who play at covering the sound of the band's huge amplifiers with the roar of their motorcycles: sheer madness! Ettore finds yet another t-shirt that makes him fall in love. We go back home exhilarated by so much excess and so much desire to play.

In the tender world of the Amish

Another day of traveling: the second-to-last. A traffic jam in Chicago makes us lose an hour and so we arrive in Ohio, the land of the Amish, right at sunset. It's a place that smells of simple and good things. The earth gives off its best scents: hay, grasses, animals. The little towns, all crossed by the up-and-down road, are small enough to be cared for down to the details. Every house, from the most modest to the most luxurious, has its own nice green lawn, which looks freshly mowed; at least one large tree providing shade and making history; the porch with a rocking chair or a bench. Arriving near Millersburg we meet the first horse-drawn carriage: it's the testimony of the radical choice of these people who came from Switzerland and Germany in the nineteenth century, who reject modern technology judging the life that results from it as not harmonious with the Gospel.

The Hotel Millersburg, otherwise very charming, which the guidebook recommends, is closed. We trust ourselves once again to the GPS "lady", who, without batting an eye, guides us to the "Confort Suites" in Berlin. Almost luxury for $86: there's also a pool and we have so much space that four of us could live in that room. Dinner in a nice "Coffee Bar" because, naturally, the restaurants closed at 8:00 p.m. A little stroll under the stars and then to bed.

Last emotions.

The morning in the Amish town is extremely pleasant. The festive atmosphere amplifies the pleasant sensations already experienced yesterday at dusk. It feels like moving in an uncontaminated world, still pure. Everything is simple and beautiful: even the children playing in the yards or setting up vegetable stands dressed like the children of two hundred years ago; even the couples passing by us in their carriages and who seem to have come off the set of "Little House on the Prairie". We lose ourselves in the immense "Leheman's" emporium: there they sell objects, tools, furniture, games, linens that would make our great-grandparents feel at ease.

Without realizing it we end up buying $100 worth of things: in the USA everyone is really good at selling! A very pleasant lunch in Berlin, where I fall in love with yet another waitress (this one is truly special though...) and where we manage to exchange a few words with a big Amish man with a long beard and kind eyes. With him, his wife and four children. He tells us that they still all speak German. Then he feels sorry for us Italians who, as I explain to him, struggle to raise one child, let alone four. After lunch a very boring 7-hour trip toward Newark. When, by then evening, we find ourselves trapped in the return traffic jam (the three days of the Labour Day holiday are over), we decide to get off. We find lodging in a motel of the "Days Inn" chain. It's surprising! It even has a pool, besides spacious and clean rooms.

Next door an Indian restaurant where we enjoy an incredibly well-cooked dinner served with exquisite courtesy. I stress that we're in a motel on the highway... A final struggle to fit everything into the suitcases and we collapse to sleep.

Return.

We manage to return the car to Newark, "lady" included, half an hour earlier than expected. It gives a certain satisfaction to read on the receipt that we traveled 3219 Miles: we feel like great travelers. Finding our way around the airport, by now, is child's play. We just have to overcome the boredom of a 7-hour wait and then we'll fly home.